


The Holiday Inn

by Crysania



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crysania/pseuds/Crysania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as an adopted Rumbelle Secret Santa prompt. The prompt given was "Holiday Inn AU. Untold secrets." It is not necessary to have seen the movie, I don't think, to get the fic!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holiday Inn

_Christmas Eve…_

Belle French had dreams. She had had dreams as long as she could remember. Working in her father's flower shop was definitely not one of those dreams. But it was where she had ended up. Even she couldn’t tell herself how she got there, really. But when her dreams of being a star, of even being the _back up_ to a star had fallen flat and she crawled home without a cent to her name, her father had offered her the position there. "It's for the best, my dear," he had said and clapped her on the back. He had never wanted her to explore the great wide world around them, never wanted her to be a dancer and singer and all those things that the "wrong type of girls" did. Yet Belle wanted it. Wanted it so much she could taste it.

Instead she languished away day after day selling flowers to worried young men on their way home to their sweethearts, men who had probably done something wrong, men who wanted to make it up to them with a bouquet of half-wilted flowers from their sad little shop.

That day Belle was out front trying to make yet another pathetic bouquet when a gentleman rushed in. Dressed to the nines, just another man looking for flowers for a sweetheart he'd done wrong. His face was red with exertion as he approached her and her father. "Am I too late?"

She wanted to dismiss him. They were closing and her father gave her that look, the one he usually does when Belle takes pity on another one of the men who really _must_ have flowers _right this instant_ and there's nothing else to be done about it. "You would have been in another minute." Cheerful. She was tired, beat, ready to go home to the little flat they called home and spend the evening with their sad frozen dinners and their TV tuned into whatever Christmas special they could find. Her father would fall asleep on her couch and she would toast Christmas Day alone, only the TV and her father's snores for company.

She stepped out in front of the shop and paused as the man turned to look at her. She knew him. Well, she didn't _know_ him know him. But she recognized that face, that strange curling hair that hid just below the hat he wore. They called him Zoso. Only Zoso. His real name wasn't one that anyone knew. She only knew that he was one of the hottest talent agents around these parts. Get on board with Zoso and you had it made.

"Papa," Belle said as she rushed back to her father. "Let me wait on him. And just…stay back here ok?" He father gave her one of those looks. He knew her, perhaps a little too well, and he knew her dreams, impossible though they may be.

"Of course my dear," he said slowly and patted her lightly on the shoulder. "You go take care of him."

Belle smiled, brilliant and bright, and rushed back out to the front. "What can I get for you?"

"Orchids," the man said quickly and she felt pinned by his gaze.

"Orchids," she repeated dumbly. _Hire me, Mr. Zoso. I would be great in one of your acts._ She shook her head. "Corsage?"

He gave her an odd look. "A dozen. Loose. Make the arrangement… _pretty_." He said the last on a sneer and she wondered who they were for. As she stepped back slightly, he started scribbling on a piece of paper. "Have them delivered here. No later than 11:00pm."

"Oh dear," Belle said. "It seems our last delivery truck has already left." She heard her father choking somewhere behind her, knew he would counter that as quickly as possible.

"I have a plane to catch," the man said quickly.

"I could deliver them," Belle offered. And there was the piece de resistance.

"You could? Really?" He sounded so relieved and when she glanced back her father had disappeared again.

"Oh yes sir, really." He finished writing the address and handed the paper to her. "They need to be delivered to the dressing room of Miss MillieReynolds. Can you do that?"

"I can," Belle assured him and with a quick nod he started to leave.

He stepped away and then stopped. "Say, would you like to see the show tonight? Here." He handed her his card. "This will get you in. Just give it to the bouncer. He'll seat you at the entertainer's table."

"Sir, wait. I know who you are." She hated the way the words sounded so desperate but this was it, her last chance.

"Do you now?" He turned back and eyed her up and down.

"Zoso. They call you Zoso. And you're the greatest agent in town. I know." Zoso started to skitter backward a bit and she recognized the all too knowing of a look. "I dance and sing. If you just give me a chance…"

He cut her off with a quick downward swipe of his hand and Belle found herself backing up. It wasn't that this Zoso was all that large, though it didn't take much to dwarf her tiny height. But she still felt small before him. He'd yank that invitation away as quickly as he could, tell her to forget the damned flowers, and run out the door before she could even begin to apologize. Or get on his good side. It wasn’t like she hadn't _tried_ to meet him before. But it never quite worked out.

"Look, I know this guy. Wants to open this crazy idea for an inn. He's looking for performers." He pulled out a card and pressed it into her hand. "You just go up there tomorrow and tell him I sent you. He's desperate." He looked her up and down. "He'll take anything." And then he was out the door before she had a chance to thank him or yell at him or anything else.

A chance.

It was at least that much.

Even if this _Holiday Inn_ didn't sound like all that appealing of a place.

* * *

_Stay_ , he said. _Watch the performance_ , he said. Gold had no idea why he was even there. Front and center, waiting for the act to start. Once he and Jones had been friends and colleagues. They had worked together, their act one of fun and friendship. And then Millie had come into their lives.

 _Millie_.

The bane of his bloody existence. He had fallen in love with her, with the idea of love, with the idea of settling down and raising a family. He thought she had, too. They talked long into the night many times about it. They were to be married. He had gone so far as to buy a farm.

 _A fucking farm_.

He had no idea what he had been thinking. When the night came when their performing days were to be over, when he was all packed up and ready to head north to a little town called Storybrooke, Millie had told him it was over. She wanted to keep performing. She and Killian Jones _were in love_.

And that was that.

Zoso had new acts for them already lined up. Millie hadn't want to confess to him the truth of her relationship with Jones, and so he left that night for the farm, dejected and alone. He had heard, during the year he'd been away, that she and Jones had made quite the name for themselves, touring the whole of the eastern seaboard.

He had been determined to come back triumphant, to show them his farm was successful. In truth he came back with a damaged ankle and several jars of peach preserves that exploded the moment he set them on the counter.

He was a failure.

Of course he was. Millie was right in the end, when she told him his farm would never make it. And worse, any chance of being back in the business had been shot to hell when he fell and did some serious damage to his ankle. He walked with a cane now, a limping sad shell of the man he once was.

That wasn't to say he didn't have ideas. Though both Jones and Zoso had looked at him like he had a second head when he had brought them up. He was excited about it, but at the same time waiting for it all to fall apart around him. They told him it would.

In some ways that made it all that much more likely that he'd fight for it.

"Is this seat taken?"

He heard the voice before he saw the woman it was attached to. She was a tiny little thing, big voice, beautiful eyes. The accent he couldn't quite place but it seemed to not matter as she simply sat down and kept watching him. "Did I say something wrong?" she asked and her smile seemed to light up the whole area.

"What…no. Of course not. Sorry." A waiter stopped by and took their orders and an uncomfortable silence fell for a moment. "It seems I'm a bit remiss. I'm Gold," he said and held out his hand. She took it briefly, allowing him to engulf her much smaller hand in his for just a moment. There was a spark there, a brief jolt of _something_ that went right through him.

"French," she responded with. "Belle French."

And it might just have been the most beautiful name he had ever heard in his entire life. For a moment, thoughts of Killian Jones and MillieReynolds and everything his life had become left him. Her eyes were so blue as she stared at him, blue and focused and strangely compassionate as he stammered over his next words. "It's…it's nice to meet you." She just smiled and reached out to touch his hand again. "You know someone in the act?"

He watched as she sat back suddenly and a strange look passed over her face. Worried, he thought. If he didn't know better he'd think she was worried and nervous and that he had hit some sort of strange nerve with that question.

"I…" she started, stopped. "I was invited by Zoso…"

"Ah…so you know Killian Jones then, I take it?" He waved a hand at the stage. Of course she did. Everyone knew Killian Jones. Gold had only been out of the circuit a year and already no one seemed to recognize him here.

"Oh of course," she said in response.

"Yes yes of course. He's quite the ladies man." And there was a bitterness there, somewhere. He didn't know this woman, didn't care about her. But here she was, just another pretty face in a long string of pretty faces that Killian Jones had no doubt attracted. How she had gotten in with Zoso when she was no doubt just another Jones groupie was beyond him.

"So you know him?" the woman said.

He gave her a strange look, puffed himself up. "I've been considering their act for my club…"

"You have a club, then?" She leaned closer, put her hand on his leg and he felt that jolt of electricity go straight through to his groin.

"I do." He didn't even know why he was saying these things. As if he had anything more than just the dream of an inn that everyone told him was ridiculous. "But I'm not quite sure they're right for my place." _What on earth was he saying anyway?_ "Their act is a bit… _small_ …for the size of it."

Her eyebrows rose and she leaned even closer. Her lips were just scant inches from his and he felt himself wanting to lean forward, to taste them. "I've found," she said and her voice was just a bit huskier than it had been before, "that the size doesn't matter if one has enough…personality."

And she had quite the personality. There was no doubt of that. "You're in show business?"

She leaned back with a grin, one of those cat ate the canary type grins that he usually found so annoying but today made him want to toss her over the table and have his way with her, bad ankle and audience be damned. "I'm Belle French."

"Of course you are." He had no idea who she was. None. If she had risen to fame in the last year, he wouldn't have known that. Better to hedge his bets than admit he really didn't actually have a bloody clue who she was.

The act began then and they settled in to watch it. Gold spent far more of the time watching Belle French, trying to find something in her that he recognized. She was young, but not overly so, perhaps in her late 20s. Surely she had been around before his semi-retirement last year. But no, he did not recognize her.

She seemed to enjoy the performance and the way she watched it, almost feverish, leaning forward. He wasn't sure if she was just really excited to watch the performance (and even _he_ could admit that Jones and Reynolds made a beautiful pair, even if Millie was supposed to have been _his_ wife) or if she was trying to memorize the competition.

Either way, it was over all too soon and the pair rushed off the stage toward them. "Great act wasn't it?" he leaned over and said conversationally.

"Beautiful," she answered.

"Ah, here they come." At her blank look, he pointed.

As he turned to greet his old (former, he realized) friend and his former (never, really) fiancée, he saw Belle suddenly jump up. "Are you…" he started to ask but she was gone before he could even finish the sentence.

"I thought you were alone," Jones said and there was an edge to his voice. "Date couldn't handle you, you old crocodile?" It hadn't been long enough since he'd heard that sarcastic voice, his term for Gold, who was much older than himself. Once they had been a team. The older Gold with his beautiful voice, the younger Jones with his athletic dancing style. It had worked.

And then along came Millie.

"She wasn't a date," Gold muttered and couldn't help the wishing that came over him at that. He didn't even know this Belle French and yet there was a draw there that he couldn’t quite explain. "She was a friend of yours apparently."

"A _friend_ ," Millie suddenly chimed in with and Gold wondered if her voice had always been quite so grating. "Couldn't face me?" She crossed her arms over her chest and there was a feral grin sitting there. She owned Jones, Gold suddenly realized. Owned him hook, line and sinker. And what else could the man do but grovel.

He was thankful when they were called back up on stage for their encore and could remove their fighting, their tumultuous relationship from his presence. With a sigh, he slipped out of the theatre. Maybe he could catch this _Belle French_ and find out what she was _really_ doing at that table.

* * *

_Christmas Day…_

She had left her father early that morning. He hadn't much cared and that left her frustrated and annoyed. He was a good man. Really he was. But between his drinking and spending the money they made frivolously, he was sometimes simply too much. She had ended up leaving a note and took the first bus out of town she could find.

Storybrooke, Maine, as it turned out, was as small town America as you could get. Just one road down the middle of town, one stoplight. The clock tower atop the library, which appeared to be closed and likely had been for years, was stuck on 8:15. She wondered how long it had been stuck like that. From the dilapidated appearance of the town she would guess it had been quite some time.

It wasn’t a place most would have chosen to go.

It certainly wasn’t a place a young woman thought of as a launching point for her career.

But here she was, the card that Zoso gave her sitting slightly crumpled and damp in her hand. She stepped off the bus on the corner of the street. The driver, who had at least been kind enough to point her in the direction of the inn, sped off almost as soon as she was off, suitcase in hand.

 _Well, this bodes well_.

She made the walk to the inn as quickly as she could in her high heels. She really ought to wear more sensible shoes. But, well, Belle French wasn’t always as sensible as she’d like to be. She tried, but her head was often in the clouds, nose stuck in a book. Only her natural grace and years of dance training had enabled her to stay on her feet. With the number of times she had run into something or tripped, she probably should have had a broken ankle by now.

The inn sat on the outskirts of town and while she wouldn’t exactly call it run-down, she also wouldn’t say it looked fresh and new. It was getting there though. A fresh coat of paint had been applied and there had been an area out front cleared for a bit of parking. The former farmhouse, for that’s what she had been told on the bus as they approached the town, had recently been converted to the inn. It wasn’t open yet, but apparently the owner had high hopes for the place.

Belle supposed the town had a certain sort of appeal for those looking to get away from the city for a spell.

As she stepped close to the inn, she saw a man high above her. He was balanced rather precariously on a ladder, one hand gripping it tight while the other attempted to hammer in the sign announcing it as “The Holiday Inn.” He was slim, not very tall, and as he stretched, she saw the ladder bobble just a tiny bit.

“Pardon me?” she called up to him and watched as he gripped the ladder just a little harder with her words. There was no response. Just a bang as he hammered in another nail. “I’m looking for a job,” she went on. “Do you know where the boss is?”

“Right here,” the man above her responded. “I’ll be right down.” He took that moment to glance down at her, turning away and then back again as his eyes focused more clearly on her. His eyes went wide, her eyebrows rose as they stared at each other.

She knew him.

She had met him only the night before, sitting at the table and pretending she was someone other than who she was, someone far more important. _I’m Belle French_. As if that was all she had to say on that.

And the man knew. _Gold_ , she remembered. His expression said it all.

The ladder wobbled again and she took a breath, wanted to tell him to be careful, when he reached out to grab the sign and found nothing but air there. It seemed like minutes but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds when he flew off the ladder. She couldn’t get out of the way fast enough, still rooted to the spot, and so when he fell one arm came out and hit her hard across the shoulders.

She found herself in the snow right alongside him.

Cold, wet, and utterly ridiculous.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, noting the rather sheepish look that was on his face. She knew she wore a similar one. “So you’re the one who thought Jones and Reynolds might be too small for your venue?”

He gave her another sheepish look, greying hair falling into his eyes."And you… _Belle French_." He said the words with a slight flourish of his hands and it was her turn to look a bit sheepish over the whole thing. She was a no one. But for one night, for one small moment in time, she had _been_ someone.

"So we're both a couple of fakes."

He made a small huffing noise. "Fakes and phonies." And there was a slight smile behind the words that made her smile right back.

"And we're both soaked," she pointed out, sitting there in the frigid snow. But she felt warm sitting next to him, laughing in the snow about their own grandstanding for each other. She still didn’t know what possessed her then, but his eyes had been wide and intense and she had found herself wishing she were of the caliber of artist he would bring to his club.

"Come on," he said and she watched as he stood, awkwardly reaching out to grip the ladder and pick up the cane she hadn't noticed resting there. He held out a hand to her and she only hesitated for a moment before putting her hand in his, allowing him to draw her to her feet.

She glanced down at the cane and felt worse about her causing the fall. "Are you hurt?"

He gripped the cane harder, knuckles slightly white. "No worse than usual." The words were soft and there was a bitterness there that Belle found caused a strange ache somewhere inside here. "Come on," he repeated and turned then, using the cane to maneuver his way out of the snow bank and into the inn. He seemed somewhat adept at using it, but there was still an awkwardness to the way his hand gripped it, to the way he leaned on it. It was a new development in his life, she was sure of it.

"Here let me," she said, rushing forward to grab the door handle. He snarled something incoherent at her and she backed up, just a pace.

"I am not an invalid, Miss French, despite what the cane may say about me."

"I didn't…"

"You offered. That was enough." And then he turned on his heel and strode into the building. The door almost shut in her face and she sighed. This was not off to the best start.

* * *

He had sent the girl upstairs to get dressed. It was easier to get her out of his hair and she really was quite wet after their little dunking in the snow outside the inn. Despite the tenseness as they walked into the inn he had found himself warming to her. She had taken one look around the place and been obviously charmed.

As well she should be. The inn had once been a farmhouse, an escape for a rich New Yorker who thought coming to Maine and living in a small town full of wide open spaces would make him feel less claustrophobic. It hadn't worked, of course. The farmhouse had gone through a series of owners before being closed down for several years.

Gold had bought it for a song, expecting it to be a home. _His_ home. His and Millie’s. He had dreams of a family and solitude and all the things a life in show business had never given him. It had needed a lot of work and when he found himself at the place alone, Millie long since gone, performing where ever she wanted with Killian Jones at her side, he had thrown himself into the repairs.

It had, effectively, ended any sort of career in the business. He could still sing, his voice was still the one that was sought after. But dancing? Well, he had never been exactly great at it. Jones had been the dancer, wowing the audience with his grace, while Gold had been the one with, well, the golden voice. He danced well enough. Or did until he injured himself taking over this damned farm.

He shouldn’t even say that, really. He loved the farm. He loved what it was becoming, a homey inn that he hoped would be comfortable to any number of people. A place that people said _I want to go there_ and spent their holidays relaxing, watching the shows, enjoying the ambiance of the out of the way little town.

It would be perfect.

If he could ever _get_ it there.

He had plans. Big plans. He had never really been a dreamer, not in a long time at least. His father had left him at a young age and his aunts had given him an occupation of sorts, spinning the wool they collected from their sheep. It had been hard labor. They had been poor and destitute and often one step away from losing everything. Dreaming wasn’t something kids did in that situation. _Living_ was. Worrying was. Hoping that your next meal would not be the last was.

He didn’t dare dream until he’d met Millie. She had seemed perfect. The right partner for him. Graceful, lithe, and she had loved him. Or so he had thought. He often wondered how much of it was just another act. He never thought he’d be tricked like that, always thought he’d see through a person's acting skill. But it appeared Millie was better at it than he had imagined. He had bought her claims of love without a second thought.

He had been so gullible.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He glanced that way and saw Belle French walking carefully down them, one hand on the banister, the other pushing her long hair over her shoulders. She smiled when she saw him and didn't that just go right to his groin?

He wouldn't admit to himself that it warmed his heart as well. When _was_ the last time a woman smiled at him in sincerity? He wasn't sure Millie ever had. She certainly hadn't in the past few years, despite her claims of wanting to get married, of wanting to live on the farm, of wanting to give up the life they had once fought so hard for.

But Belle French smiled at him and it made _him_ smile back, even if he wanted to scowl and threaten and push her far away.

* * *

Belle stopped at the bottom of the steps, hand still clinging to the banister. "Mr. Gold?"

"Just…" His voice cracked on the word. "Just Gold is fine."

She nodded and stepped further into the room. "And just Belle is fine," she pointed out. She was fairly certain he was the type to use her last name. _Miss French_ was just too formal for her tastes.

He just gave her a look at that and waved her ahead of him into the small sitting room off the main area of the inn. It was cozy, tree in place, a couple couches, fireplace, and the piano that sat prominently in one corner. She wandered by it, hit a couple notes, and then felt a small shift in the air behind her.

“Tea, Miss French?”

The words startled her and she turned toward him, smiled. “Yes. That sounds lovely. Thank you” He departed then and she settled herself on one of the couches. She had been given a warm pair of pajamas. She didn’t know whose. She suspected they were Gold’s as they were a little larger on her but not terribly so. It was a little weird wearing a strangers pajamas but they were warm and comfortable and the dressing gown they had dug up for her wrapped tightly around her body.

The couch was comfortable and she leaned back. She was almost drifting off when she heard the soft pad of feet and a slight cough.

Gold was dressed similarly to her and somehow it seemed almost odd to see him so dressed down. There was something about the way he carried himself, the fine cut of his suits, that spoke to a sort of armor. He was guarded and even now, as he tried to look anywhere but at her, he looked ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

“Here,” he said and handed her the cup.

It was full already. She didn’t expect that and the heat from it caused her to hiss with pain and drop it. “Oh!” It tumbled to the ground and she was relieved to see that the cup seemed intact.

Or at least it did until she picked it up.

"Oh no," she murmured. First day here and she's already knocked the man off his ladder and now _this_. "It's chipped."

He stepped forward and watched her for a moment. Then finally he shrugged. "It's just a cup." He offered her another one and the moment was over, to her great relief. There was still tea on the ground and he waved away her attempts at cleaning it. He had a cleaning crew, he told her. They'd take care of it.

She left a towel to soak it up anyway. It would be easier in the morning.

She settled herself back on the couch, wrapped herself in a blanket and took a sip of her tea. "This seems like a dream," she said and her eyes were drifting have shut. "Lovely, wonderful. But then you wake up…"

"It's more than a dream, dearie." His voice was soft as he spoke. "When all of this is done, all I need to do is find the right people to perform and people _will_ come."

"Like the Field of Dreams?" He gave her a strange look. "You know, if they build it…oh nevermind. So just fifteen holidays a year?"

Gold nodded. "That's right. Each night will feature a theme show and a special menu."

"Seems a little lazy," Belle pointed out.

"It’s not," Gold shot back quickly. " _I'm_ not." There was a snarl behind the words that made Belle smile. She didn't even know why. There was bark there, but she knew there would be no bite. There was something about the man, something that made her get up, hold her wrap tightly around herself and sit next to him on the couch.

"Look, I know this is kind of forward…"

"Miss French," he said and the words were sharp and she saw the pink tint to his cheeks and it almost made her laugh a little… _almost_.

" _Mr. Gold_ ," she admonished, though there was a teasing bent to the words. "I came here looking for a job. Could you use me?"

He gave her what she could call an assessing look. "What can you do?"

She looked away, bit her lip. "I can sing and dance a little…"

"Can you now?" He gave her another one of those assessing looks and she felt the blush rise up on her cheeks. She had always hated that, how easily her face turned red, giving away something about her emotions that she wasn't ready to show. "I don't know how much I can pay you at first…"

Belle squealed. She didn't mean to. But it came out nonetheless and she reached out, squeezed his knee and watched as he skittered back just slightly. "Oh, Mr. Gold, I don't care if you pay me in _eggs_. I just want a chance to work."

He watched her for a moment and then stood, grabbing his cane and making his way slowly toward the piano on the other side of the room. She remained on the couch, watching him, unsure. He finally turned back toward her and crooked a finger. "I was going to sing this song tonight." His words were soft as he took a seat at the piano. "It was a promise I made to myself."

She stepped closer and he waved his hand at a nearby chair. She pulled it up close to the piano, watched as he stretched his hands. They were graceful hands, strong. As he played the opening chords she found she enjoyed watching the way those hands moved across the keys, slow and sensual. Truth be told, she had always admired piano players. She had no talent for such things, singing and dancing the extent of her abilities. But she loved watching piano players.

And Gold was good, fingers moving with careful precision, not a note out of place, not a rhythm missed.

When he opened his mouth to sing, she was even more surprised at the beauty of his voice than at the way he played piano. It was a rich baritone, smooth, and it wrapped around her senses. She found she wanted to get closer to that voice and Belle couldn't honestly remember the last time she wanted to get closer to _anyone_. Her life had been in limbo for what felt like forever, helping her father, trying to make sure the flower shop didn't go under and her father didn't fall prey to his demons. But here she was, taking a chance.

And she had to take another chance.

When he paused and started in on the chorus of the song, Belle joined in, creating a harmony line and counter melody that went perfectly with the melody Gold had written. His eyebrows shot up when she started to sing, but he recovered quickly, only a small fumble on the piano the evidence of his surprise, and they finished off the song together.

"Well, Miss French…"

"Belle," she reminded him.

"Belle," he agreed. "I think we might have room for you at the inn, after all."

She leaned over then and hugged him. She did it without thinking, but she felt him stiffen beneath her and so moved away. "My clothes are probably dry," she murmured.

"Probably."

"I'll just…be getting home then?" She didn't even know why she phrased it as a question. It was getting late, but surely she could find a way home.

"It's late, Miss French. Why don't we find you a room and you can spend the night here?"

"I…I would like that. Thank you." She turned to go.

"New Years, Miss French?"

She turned back to him. "New Years?"

"I think we could use you."

She smiled and left then. A job. She had a _job_.

* * *

_New Years Eve…_

The place was hopping and Gold was relieved. Oh, he might talk a good talk, but he really had no idea if it would catch on. He was half afraid it would be him at the piano, Belle French doing a little dance, and nothing more than the hired help to watch. It wouldn't have surprised him, really. He wasn't well-liked. Not in the business, where he was known for being exacting, demanding, sometimes downright hostile. And certainly not in this little town which he swept into and turned what was once a beloved farmhouse into an inn.

But it had worked.

Belle had helped in the kitchen, putting together appetizers, drinks, meals. She had been, really, quite indispensible. She wasn't a brilliant cook. She wasn't a brilliant cleaner. But she pulled her own weight and did her damnedest to be a part of the crew. Really, she dove right in without any questions asked.

And he found himself admiring her. The man who admired no one, not even himself. He watched her as she charmed the staff, watched her as she danced around the kitchen and worked her magic on everyone. Including him. He didn't expect that really.

There was a part of him that hoped at midnight he'd be near her. He wanted to grab her, kiss her. But he knew… _he knew_ …what beautiful young woman would want him? He was nearing 50, greying hair, and now he was crippled. He had lost any sort of natural grace he had when he had crushed his ankle. The joint was now turned in slightly and so he made his graceless hobbling way around the kitchen while Belle flitted around with an allure he was fast not able to resist.

But he wasn't near her at midnight.

He was across the room, being accosted by a drunken lady who desperately wanted him to dance with her despite his pointing out, multiple times really, that he could barely walk. _You're mine for the night_ she had said and he didn't want to entirely displease her. She _was_ a patron after all.

So instead he half danced and watched the room, keeping an eye on the patrons, but more keeping an eye out for _her_. It was ridiculous really. He did not pine for anyone. Even the mere thought of it insane.

But he watched for her and he saw when she entered the room. And watched as it parted, people moving out of the way as she stepped onto the floor.

With Jones.

With Killian bloody Jones.

He didn't know he was there, couldn't quite imagine why he was. But he noticed as he stepped toward Belle, that his footing wasn’t steady, one leg turning inward just slightly as he stumbled into her.

He wanted to go to her. He wanted to pull her away from Jones. But no, he saw Belle turn around and her face light up as Jones swept her into the dance. It was mesmerizing, watching the two of them and Gold felt the cold go right down to the pit of his stomach. Jones was clearly three sheets to the wind, stumbling every once in awhile, but his natural grace took over and the pair floated around the floor, other couples getting out of the way and watching.

Of course they watched.

Who _wouldn't_ watch Belle French? She sang and danced _a little_ , she said. But here was the proof that she did more than just as simple _little._ Her skirt, far too short really, flew up about her as she twirled and twisted, sometimes being led by Jones and sometimes having to lead him as he seemed to lose his way, get distracted.

But he noticed the way she was looking around the room at times and he worried. Damn him, but he worried. He finally shoved away from the woman holding him near captive with a not quite as apologetic as it should be _I need to take care of something_ , when the music came to an end and Jones tripped, collapsing into a heap at Belle's feet.

People laughed.

They thought it was a joke.

Gold waved to his biggest bouncer and general handy-man about the inn, a man by the name of Dove, and the man quickly removed Jones from the dance floor.

"Are you alright?" Gold asked Belle as he reached out a hand, almost touched her.

"Alright? Why wouldn't I be?"

He smiled at her honest confusion. "Good." And he hated the way his voice softened but there was just something about her, faced with those wide blue eyes, that eroded the hard edges of his personality. "Good then. I should…" And she was still watching him, a small smile on her face. "I should go take care of Jones."

She nodded. "Sure…right…you take care of your friend."

Gold snorted at that one. "He's hardly a friend. Ex-partner who stole my ex-fiancée."

"Well, that sounds awful," Belle responded with and he shook his head slightly at the slightly sad note to her voice.

"It is what it is." He watched where Dove was dragging Jones, heading up to one of the rooms of the inn. Zoso slinked out of the crowd and even from a distance Gold could tell the look on his face. Not a good one. A pleased one. An excited one. He followed Jones but turned around once in awhile to search the crowd and he _knew_ what he was looking for. "Belle," Gold finally said, and stepped in between Belle and Zoso, hoping the man couldn't find her in the crowd. "Could you keep an eye on things in the kitchen?"

"Right," she responded with quickly and the look she gave him was searching, assessing, He refused to meet her eyes.

"Good. Thanks. I'll be back down as soon as I can." And with that he turned and rushed off, catching Zoso's eye as he hobbled toward the stairs. Get the man out of there, don’t let him find Belle. Zoso was a snake. A snake he knew, a snake he used when he needed him, but a snake nonetheless. Gold didn't know why Jones was at the inn that night and he didn't know why Zoso had apparently followed him, but he intended to find out.

* * *

_Valentine’s Day…_

Things had settled down at the inn soon after New Years. The crowd had dispersed, leaving for their home towns. Gold had sent Belle packing. Well, not really she admitted. He had told her that while he was glad to give her a job, was absolutely thrilled to have her dance and sing at the big Valentine’s Day gala, he didn’t _need_ her there.

And he couldn’t afford to pay her.

New Years had gone off without a hitch, but he was still in the hole and still scrambling to make ends meet. So she had gone home.

And spent a miserable month working for her father again. He had _told_ he she’d never make it and had made sure that she heard _I told you so_ at least once a day. Yet it hadn’t beaten her down the way he thought it would.

Even if Jones, the man who had danced so gracefully with her hadn’t wanted her. Oh, Gold didn’t tell her as much, but he did indicate that the man woke up the next morning with a wicked hangover and no recollection of the night before.

And then he had sent her on her way.

But he wanted her back. Enough that he had made several phone calls to her over the next month, discussing her routine, payment options, songs to sing. They had gotten closer in those moments, sometimes the conversation turning to their lives. She learned about how things were progressing at the inn, how it had finally been completely transformed, about the talent clamoring for a chance to be seen and heard there. He learned about her boring days of wiling away her time at her father’s shop and trying to keep the man on his feet, sometimes quite literally.

She hated the pity in his voice when she told him about her father, about her home life. But at the same time, she had someone to listen. And he listened well, allowing her to talk, to scream, to even cry. She was surprised to discover just how good a listener Gold _was_. She found him easy to spill the painful details of her life.

So she was going back.

And quite possibly for good this time.

He had mentioned it. Oh not in any sort of concrete way. But _Maybe next time you can stay at the inn_ had been uttered and so she came packed this time for more than just a couple nights. If he sent her on her way, well, then she'd know she misinterpreted the signs.

But she didn't.

She was sure of it.

There was something there, something he was keeping from her. He dodged questions on occasion, clammed up, told her had to go and hung up before she had a chance to say another word. He wasn't an easy man to know and she suspected he was an even more difficult man to love. But she was willing to give it a try.

Some people were worth fighting for.

When she arrived the afternoon of Valentine's Day, everything was still quiet. Gold met her at the door and there was a strange, soft smile on his face. He held out a hand and she placed hers in it as he drew her into the inn. It was decorated in soft pinks and vibrant reds, understated and yet clearly meant for lovers.

"This is lovely!"

"I wasn't sure what you'd think," he replied, honest to a fault. It was something she liked about him. Before she had a chance to respond, he was drawing her through the foyer into the dance room. The piano sat where it always did, off to the side, surrounded by the chairs the musicians would take up that night. "Come," he finally said. "I have something for you."

Wide-eyed, she stepped closer to look at the sheet music he held out to her. "A song?" She met his eyes then. "For me?"

"For you. If you'll have it?"

She couldn't help the wide smile that broke out on her face as she curtseyed. Gold bowed and sat at the piano, pushing the dark tails of his suit out dramatically as he sat and looked up at her with a small grin on his face.

The song was lovely, quiet and sweet, and it was just as she started to sway to the music, eyes shut, that she felt the touch of a hand on hers. She almost let out a yelp, but instead turned. Gold was still lost in the music and so she stepped away.

She still remembered the dance with him, drunken fool that he was.

He tried to pull her into a dance, but she stepped back, shaking her head. He tried again and she managed to dodge him. But then finally he tried a third time and with a sigh she went along with him. He was a bully, a bit of a brute, but it was perhaps easier.

If only he didn't move so well, so easily. She managed to lose herself in the dance, forget for a moment who she was dancing with. He was _easy_ to dance with and there was a part of her that hated him for that.

When the song was over, Jones bowed to her and she turned back to Gold. There was a look on his face, rage, hate, and then it passed.

"You've found her!" came the voice from the other side of the room and Belle turned, saw Zoso heading toward her.

"Zoso!" Jones said from next to her, clapping the man on the back as he came to stand at his side. Then he turned to Belle. "We've been searching for you."

"For me?" She hated how her voice came out on a squeak.

"Yes," Jones said.

"The girl in the flower shop," Zoso suddenly said, watching her closely. Far too closely really. The man seemed fairly large in that moment, a looming presence next to her own miniscule height. "Where have you been working all this time?"

"Working?" Belle shook her head. "Here. You gave me Gold's card, remember?"

"You must come back with me to New York," Jones suddenly interrupted with.

"Pardon?"

"No," Gold said and Belle turned to give him a sharp look. "I mean…"

"No, you're right." She put a hand gently on his arm and watched as Jones gave them an assessing look. "I promised to stay here." And it was more than that really. Oh, New York had been her dream. The big stage, the grand lighting. But she found she enjoyed this life of quiet solitude. She knew she'd enjoy staying at the inn during the off days, planning the big performances with Gold, rehearsing. It had never been her dream but now she had a hard time imagining anything else.

"You don't have to stay with this old crocodile." Jones smiled, feral, almost a snarl. "Gold surely won't miss you."

"I promised," Belle reiterated.

Jones reached out and grabbed her arm and it must have been too much all together. Gold suddenly leapt up and his cane came down hard on Jones hand. The man pulled back with a hiss. "Are you crazy?"

"Maybe," Gold responded with and smacked Jones again, pushing him further away from her.

"Gold," Zoso said and his voice was what Belle would call wheedling. "Killian needs a partner."

"Well, he can look somewhere else. Get out."

"Gold," Jones started to say but at the look on his face, at the raised cane, held up his hands and departed.

Quiet descended on the pair and Belle took a deep breath. "Was that really necessary?"

Gold turned from her then, grabbed the sheet music in his hand and she hated the way he crumpled the music, the way his hand balled up into a fist as he slammed it down on the piano. "Entirely," he muttered.

"Really." She couldn't stop the word from sounding dry. "He just wanted to…"

"Take you away," Gold interrupted with. "He wanted to take you away."

"I know," Belle murmured and stepped closer to him. "I don't want to go."

"No?" Gold said and turned around on the piano, reached out toward her. She stepped into between his legs, let him wrap his arms around her, rest his head on her stomach. Her hands went automatically to his hair, as if she had tangled her fingers in those shaggy strands many times before. It felt natural, really, something that surprised her. Especially after seeing a bit of temper and violence from him.

“No,” Belle said and tugged lightly on his hair.

He laughed. “Well, I’m glad he couldn’t steal you away from the inn.”

“You should know by now that I’m the only one who decides my fate. He couldn’t steal me away.” She tilted his face up toward her. “No matter how much he tried.” And then she leaned down closer, her lips just a few inches from him.

His eyes met hers, drifted down, back up to her eyes again and so she knew. With a smile she closed the distance and pressed a soft, tentative kiss to his lips.

It _was_ Valentine’s Day, after all…and they never did get that midnight kiss she had wanted on New Years Eve.

* * *

_Easter_ …

The months had fairly flown by at the Holiday Inn. The Valentine’s Day performance had gone off without a hitch, something Gold was incredibly proud of. Jones hadn’t shown his face again, disappearing in anger with Zoso right at his heels.

For all he cared the pair of them could stay in New York and never set foot in his inn again. It was _his_. And even if Zoso continued to fight to get Jones paired with Belle, even if Jones wheedled and begged, it wasn’t going to happen.

Belle had been staying at the inn with him. In separate rooms, of course. There was an intimacy there between them that hadn’t been there before Valentine’s Day. Soft touches, small kisses, but nothing more. She was a lady. He would treat her as such. Even if that wasn’t the way of the world today, especially not in show business where falling into and out of bed with someone was as commonplace as falling into and out of love.

He wouldn’t have it that way.

Love was forever to him.

Belle once told him she thought that love was layered and sometimes he was sure she was peeling his layers away little by little.

It was why, ultimately, he had taken her on a carriage ride around their little town. A _carriage ride_. He wasn’t the sort to do such a thing. He was more comfortable behind a piano or a microphone, where his feelings could be translated into music. Stuck in a small carriage with Belle, while she wrapped her arm around his and exclaimed over damned near everything, he had felt slightly trapped.

She was lovely.

Her enthusiasm was catching. Far too catching, really. By the end of the ride, he was laughing with her and as enthusiastic about the little town he had come to call home as she was. He didn't expect that, to feel so carefree in her presence. She made it easy, lightly touching his arm, leaning up to whisper something in his ear, making him shudder and want to draw her into his arms and have his way with her.

Which was why, of course, things all had to go to hell.

They arrived back at the inn, tumbled out of the carriage, laughing, smiling at each other. Belle drew him along toward the entrance, her hand linked with his. And then drew up short.

Killian Jones was sitting on the front steps of the inn. He didn't noticed them at first. His head was in his hands and he looked somewhat worse for the wear. Gold and Belle stopped and stared at him and he finally seemed to notice someone was there and looked up at them.

"What are you doing here?" And Gold couldn't help the edge of bitterness behind the words. Jones hadn't been seen since he tried to steal Belle away from him. Or from the inn at least. Belle wasn't the sort to allow herself to be _stolen_. Millie could be persuaded away by the allure of her name in lights. But that wasn't his Belle.

"I thought I'd at least get a hello," Jones responded with.

"Really?" Gold answered, his voice dry.

Belle glanced at him, squeezed his hand and let go. "Hello," she said with a slight wave.

Jones eyes fell on her and he hated the way he looked almost predatory. There was something there, hidden by the almost too blue eyes, that left him feeling defensive, on edge. He wanted to rush Belle past and tell Jones to get lost. He wasn't wanted. But Belle's hand touching his, her presence, gave him the strength to stare his enemy down.

"I've discovered something," Jones went on, as if Gold weren't glaring at him all the while. "You see, all this time I've wanted the fame, the success." He swept a hand out around him. "I wanted everything. But you can't have it all, can you?" He stood then, walked a little closer. "I want what you have."

"You…"

"I want peace. I want happiness." There was an edge to his voice, full of a strange bit of…something. To someone who wasn't as familiar with the bitter tang of desperation, it would seem to come from that dark place. But Gold was familiar with it. And it didn't feel like that. "I want what you have here." Jones reaches up to try to take Belle's hand and Gold was pleased to see her draw it back, see her step closer to him.

"Millie left you," Gold surmised.

Jones looked up and his eyes met Gold's. "Millie left me," he confirmed. "For a millionaire. Told me that singing and dancing was nice and all, but she could live the high life. And so she left me in the dust." Was there a small bit of anger there? "I'm tired, my old crocodile. I want to move up here, help you. I could…" He paused for a moment. "I could help you with your shows."

"I have enough help." Gold reached out, grabbed Belle's hand and started to tug her past Jones. Let him stay out on the porch, find his way back to New York City. He finally had an idea of the type of commitment Millie Reynolds was capable of. Let him wallow in that for awhile as Gold had when he first moved up to the inn.

"Is that any way to welcome someone who wants to help you?" Jones said, following behind them.

Gold stopped.

Belle turned to meet his eyes.

And he sighed. "Fine. But only until you can call a cab and get the hell out of here."

He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't a good idea. He knew that. But he had been partners with Jones for a long time and even though he didn't trust the man, even though there was a part of him that hated him, hated him more with each breath he took, he couldn't say no. Not with Belle looking at him and expecting him to be the better man.

* * *

_The Fourth of July…_

He knew it had been a mistake. He _knew_. And as time went on, as the months progressed, as Jones insisted on doing more and more dances with Belle, trying to incorporate kisses and passion, he was even more sure of it.

But he still couldn't pin his sense of unease on anything in particular. Jones played at being the gentleman, kissed Belle's hand, acted like she was the best thing that ever happened to him. And that, frankly, scared Gold. Though he was always pleased to see Belle turn down Jones's advances. There was no doubt that Jones was more attractive than him, taller, more muscular, the kind of dashing good looks women went for.

And yet Belle always came to him, holding him close as they curled up in bed together. They were chaste, though God knows why they were. He knew he loved her. He was sure she loved him. But he didn't dare cross the final step without there being a firm sort of commitment. And he wanted to make it. Wanted to make it so much. What held him back was anyone's guess. He didn't dare try to. He wasn't sure he'd like what he came up with,

 _Coward_ …

He had lived with that title almost as long as he had been alive. He was no less a coward now than he was in his youth, running away from his father's reputation, his ultimate desertion of him.

That day he proved himself a coward again.

"Pictures, Killian. You and Belle…you can be in Hollywood pictures if it all goes well tonight." Zoso. He heard the voice before he saw the man and so stayed just around the corner.

"I'm not leaving unless Belle goes with me."

"This is your chance, Killian. Your chance to shine, your chance to get her away from Gold and all that this inn entails."

"Really now?" He could hear the smile behind the drawling words.

"If they like you, you'll both be on the train west tomorrow morning." Gold dared a glance around the corner and saw Zoso holding two tickets up. His face was split in a rather devious grin. To think that he had once been on _his_ side. When exactly had he become such a big fan of Killian Jones anyway?

"And what about…"

"Belle?" Zoso asked and Gold saw him lean toward Jones just moments before he ducked back around the corner. "We'll show her the contract and that ought to do the trick."

Gold's heart was beating fast as he went further into the inn, his hand gripping the cane harder than usual. They were going to take Belle away. No. They were going to entice her away. She'd make the choice to leave and where would he be then? Alone again. Alone with an inn and no performers and no _Belle_.

He couldn't lose her.

He loved her.

Even if he couldn't admit that to Belle. Even if he could barely admit it to himself. He _loved_ her. And now she was going to have her chance in the sun. Not at the inn, but in Hollywood. With Killian Jones.

* * *

"Dove!" Belle shouted as she left the train station. She had been down visiting her father for a few days. The weather was perfect and it was a good time for traveling into the city. Her father had been well, if not any better off than the last time she had seen him. But he greeted her with enthusiasm and wanted to know when she was coming home.

 _Never_ had been on the tip of her tongue, but she hadn't been able to get the word out. Her father was a good man, but he was difficult. Still, even in this day and age, he had _ideas_ about a woman's proper place in the world. And that involved getting married, settling down, having kids. It did not involve singing and dancing and living at an inn with an unmarried man.

Even if that unmarried man might very well be _hers_ someday. She couldn't quite say he had ever proposed, but the idea was there, lurking in every interaction and every conversation. A part of her wished he'd just propose already, dammit, but she would wait.

He had sent Dove to retrieve her. The man was massive, dwarfing both her and Gold easily. But he was the epitome of the gentle giant, taking her suitcase in one massive hand and offering up his typically kind smile. Dove was a good man. Quiet, stoic, but good. "Gold couldn't spare a moment, could he?" Dove shook his head and held the door open for her. "Is everything ready? Oh, I'm just so excited Dove! The routines and everything we've been practicing have just been amazing. I'm so excited for people to see them." Gold had gone all out for America's day of independence, which was almost amusing considering the owner of the inn was Scottish and the stars from Australia and Ireland. But they could sing of America's greatness and wave flags with the best of them.

"It's going to be quite the performance," Dove said and she was surprised to see him look away from her for a moment.

They drove in silence until Dove took a left where he usually took a right. "I don't think you're going the right way," Belle pointed out.

"Shortcut, Miss," Dove said and still wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Not any sort of shortcut I know of." Belle crossed her arms over her chest and watched as Dove's hands tightened on the wheel.

"It's a well-guarded secret," he responded with. And smiled. That left her a little bit more at ease and she settled back into her seat.

When a moment later they drove off the road into a creek, her eyes widened. It was shallow at least, but when Dove tried to restart the car, it simply sputtered. "Oh, Dove, what were you thinking?" Belle stuck her head out the window as Dove jumped out and waded into the water to look at the engine.

"Wasn't, miss," he said as he glanced down at it. "I was told…"

"That _this_ was a shortcut?" She shook her head. She had places to be, things to do. A performance that Gold would be upset if she missed. This wasn't like Dove. He was… _off_ …in some way. Maybe the man wasn't feeling well, though he was so stoic that she would probably never be able to tell one way or another. Dove stayed silent, just kept looking at the engine. There was no hope for it. That much Belle was certain of. The car was well and truly stalled out. It might very well be ruined. "Oh, just get me out of here and let me get back to the inn."

Dove stared at her for a moment longer before trudging through the water and lifting her out of the car. At least she would have this much. The highway was a fairly busy road. If she walked back there she could manage to flag someone down and maybe get a ride back to the inn. Dove turned then and she felt the moment his foot hit _something_. And he dropped her.

Right into the creek.

Right into the very wet, very cold creek.

She came up spluttering and the words that escaped her mouth were not the ladylike ones anyone would expect if they met her normally. "Dove!" she shouted before crawling her way out of the creek and back to shore. She turned to see the man still standing in the middle of the creek and did he look _guilty_? She couldn't quite tell in the dim light of the evening.

She threw her hands up and turned. "Stay with the car. I'll call a tow truck to come get you. I'm heading back to the inn." Dove just nodded and she left him there. Maybe she shouldn't have. Maybe she shouldn't set out on her own.

But she needed to get back.

Gold was counting on her.

The walk to the highway took only a little over ten minutes. Ten minutes of her angrily muttering to herself and trying to ring out her hair and clothes. She was shivering by the time she got there, even though it was warm that evening. Her sodden clothes weighed her down, her hair was plastered to the side of her face, water dripping from it down the front of her dress.

But it was only a few minutes later when a car came up the road. She raised her arms up, stepped closer to the road and was so very relieved when the woman driving it stopped. It was one of those fancy cars, a convertible. The woman had her hair wrapped in a scarf and turned to her as she the car stopped.

"Are you lost?" She leaned a little closer. "What happened to you?"

Belle let out a small huffing noise. "Bad run-in with a creek. You aren't heading toward Storybrooke by any chance are you?"

"Hop in," the other woman said. Belle breathed a huge sigh of relief as she got in the car and the other woman took off. "As it so happens," the woman continued. "I'm heading right to Storybrooke. Have you heard of the Holiday Inn?"

Belle's eyes widened. "I work there."

The other woman glanced at her before turning to watch the road again. "Waitress?"

"I…um…yes." And then it dawned on her. She knew this woman. She had only seen her once, but she knew who she was. "You're Millie Reynolds aren't you?"

The other woman smiled and she recognized that satisfaction in that smile. "I am. I'm going to be performing at the inn tonight."

"Performing, but I…"

"Oh it's a surprise!" Millie said and she looked excited. Too excited, really. "Gold called me up last night and asked me to come up and perform with Killian. There are these Hollywood men there, you see. They’re going to give us a shot. Even Killian doesn't know!"

"I just bet he doesn't," Belle muttered under her voice.

"What?"

"Nevermind."

And then a plan formed in her mind. As she glanced over at Millie Reynolds, knowing she was to be her replacement, knowing that Gold had gone behind her back for _whatever reason_. She couldn't even fathom it, really. He has been all softly spoken words and only a bit of jealousy. But to sabotage her, send her into a creek, hire Millie to perform.

There was a reason there.

And she intended to get to the bottom of it.

"I know a shortcut," Belle said. "It'll get us there far quicker."

"Well you know these parts," Millie said and Belle knew she wasn't totally convinced.

"I do…just take the next left."

Two could play at this game.

* * *

Gold had been waiting for what felt like forever. Millie should have been there by now. She was well known for being reckless, for driving too fast. He had called her hours ago, told her about this big opportunity. Millie wouldn’t have missed that for the world.

So when 6:00pm rolled around he had been surprised to not see her come traipsing in.

When 7:00pm rolled around and the performance was about to begin, she _still_ wasn’t there. Dove had no doubt derailed Belle in some way. But Millie should have been there.

By 7:30pm the audience was getting antsy.

And then the band started up. Gold, who had been pacing near the entranceway of the inn stopped, his head shooting up, and then he was rushing toward the main room as fast as he could, pain in his ankle be damned.

Zoso came rushing out and the two almost collided. “What’s going on?” Gold asked and he was sure that Zoso blanched slightly. “What have you done?”

The man looked back and forth and it was, perhaps, the first time he realized that there was a nervousness there in the way he carried himself. “Where’s Killian?”

“ _What_ have you done?” Gold repeated, using one hand to stop the larger man from rushing past him.

“You can’t just keep them waiting.” And Gold knew what he meant. This wasn’t about the audience. It was about his big Hollywood producers. They were here and Gold could well imagine they were getting annoyed. It wasn’t like they came to an inn in a little out of the way place to scout talent very often.

“Zoso?” Jones looked confused and Gold was happy for that at least.

“Get out there, kid.” Zoso put his hands on Jones’s shoulders and turned him toward the stage area.

“Where’s Belle?”

Gold gave him a bland look. “Not here.”

“You’ll have to go it alone.” Zoso sounded almost like he was pleading, but there was an angry bent to his voice and he shot Gold a look that told him he _knew_ something was up. Gold didn’t care. Let them leave. Let them take their Hollywood producers and their fancy names in lights and leave him his inn.

And Belle.

“I practiced a duo,” Jones pointed out and Gold tried to keep the grin off his face.

“I don’t _care_ ,” Zoso hissed at him. “This is your chance. Your one and only chance. Get out there and do it.” He shoved him, perhaps harder than he intended and after giving him a desperate look, Jones did as he asked. Zoso turned to look at Gold then and he just offered the taller man a bland smile. “This isn’t over,” Zoso said and stalked back into the hall.

Jones would go it alone, desperate to impress. Gold just shook his head. Zoso always did recognize a desperate soul and at the moment, not many were more desperate than Jones.

* * *

Belle had managed to find another driver heading toward Storybrooke, this one a somewhat sketchy, greasy older trucker named Keith. He spent the entire time hitting on her, but let her go when it was clear she had a place to get to. It wasn’t her best plan, really, dumping Millie in the creek alongside Dove and racing out of there. She was sure that someday that would come back to bite her in the behind, but not today.

It was only a little after 8:00pm when she arrived at the inn. Late, really. The performance was to have begun at 7:00pm and she had no idea what had transpired in her absence.

Oh, something had. That much she was sure of. Gold had planned this. She was as sure of that as she was her own name. Calling Millie, sabotaging her trip up and her performance for the night. She didn’t know what he was on about but when she found him, he was bound to hear a few choice words.

When she rushed in, she found Jones and Zoso heading into the lobby, Zoso clapping the other man on the back. They were followed by two other men who were racing to catch up.

And Gold.

Who was just behind them and seemed to be torn between angrily following them and a sort of hesitancy she’d not seen out of him in a long time. When he saw her, he stopped in his tracks and stared.

“Belle!”

The person who shouted her name was not Gold and so she turned to see Jones waving her over, Zoso look both excited and proud. “What’s going on?”

The men were there to offer them a Hollywood contract for a movie. A movie. Her. In the movies. This was what Millie had planned to steal out from under her. This was what Gold had tried to prevent.

She turned to face him and there was a look on his face she couldn’t quite define. Consternation. Guilt. Worry. Fear. He reached a hand out toward her and then drew it back. “Belle,” he whispered.

“You didn’t trust me, did you?” Her voice was quiet but harsh as she spoke.

“I…”

“You didn’t.” She shook her head. “You didn’t even give me the choice to say _no_.”

“Belle, I…”

“No. You don’t get to speak right now. _I_ get to speak.” She moved closer to him. “I would have said no.” Her voice broke on the last word. “I would have. Because this is where I belong.” She could feel the wetness pricking at the corner of her eyes and swiped angrily at them to stop the tears from falling down her cheeks. “But apparently I was wrong. About you. And about us.”

“Belle…”

“You made your choice,” she said and her voice still shook. “And you’re going to regret it. For the rest of your life.” She didn’t allow him to speak another word as she turned from him. She could see him raise his hand from the corner of her eye and then it dropped back, helpless to do anything at that moment. Her mind was made up. “I’m ready to go to Hollywood.”

Jones let out a shout.

Zoso wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

And together the three of them left the inn. 

* * *

_Thanksgiving…_

It was snowing that Thanksgiving. Of course it was. All the more reason to keep the inn closed. Not that he would have opened it even if it were a beautiful late fall day. No, in fact the inn had been closed since the disastrous July performance. He couldn’t bring himself to write more songs, plan more dances, advertise. Instead he had simply closed it up, told everyone that it was an abysmal failure, and crawled off to lick his wounds.

It should not have been a surprise. He wasn't an easy man to love and he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to stay. Who had, after all? Not his first partner, Cora, who had left him when she got pregnant by someone much wealthier. Not Millie, who had left him for Jones. And now not Belle. No one stayed.

“You haven’t touched a bit of your food, Mr. Gold.”

He glanced up to see Dove stepping into the room. Good old, massive Dove, who was always there for him through thick and thin. He didn’t know how he had ended up with such a loyal friend.

“I’m not hungry.” He hated how petulant he sounded.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” the other man pointed out as he came to stand over him.

“Yes, well…”

Dove reached out and poked at the turkey that had been prepared. A whole damned turkey. Just for him. It was ridiculous really. "There's nothing wrong with it, is there?"

Gold let out a small bark of laughter, dark laughter, the kind that clearly doesn't come from a place of humor. "No. I'm sure the turkey's fine."

And then Dove sat. Dove never sat at the table with him. He was old-fashioned that way, preferring to lurk in the corner until Gold needed him, taking his job as servant and general handy-man far more seriously than he would have expected.

But today he sat.

And looked him in the eye. Dove never did that either.

"Mr. Gold. You need to go after her."

"Go after…"

"Miss French." He spoke slowly, as if he were speaking to a child or someone quite stupid.

Gold shook his head. "I tried to keep her here," he muttered.

"Keep her, Mr. Gold? You tricked her."

And he winced at the words. "So I did."

"Look, Mr. Gold. I don’t know women that well. But one thing I know is they need to be told they're loved and cherished. Not tricked into staying with you." Dove let the words hang. Gold was pretty sure they were the most he'd ever said at one time.

Gold sighed.

"And Miss French? She loves you. I know it. Everyone knows it. If you go out there, I know she'll become the quickest ex-movie star that ever made it to Hollywood."

At the end of his speech, Dove sat back, folding all nearly seven feet of him into the small chair opposite Gold. Gold narrowed his eyes on the much larger man. "She'd come back?"

"Miss French…she wants what you have here. Simplicity. Love. She'd be happy here."

"But…"

"No tricks," Dove reminded him.

Gold was exactly the kind of man to rely on tricks. It was all he had, really. Did he really hope that he could ever keep Belle French here? With him? In this little rinky-dink town he had come to call home. "No tricks," he mused. "She needs to be told." He never did, he realized. Tell her he loved her, that was. He tried to show her, but he was abysmal at that.

And he had chased her off.

"Dove," he said, standing and grabbing his cane, feeling at least a little bit optimistic for the first time in months. "It seems I have a trip to plan."

* * *

_Christmas Eve…_

It never did feel right, stealing Gold's idea for an inn and turning it into a movie. A movie she starred in with Killian Jones. The whole thing was somewhat surreal really. They had been recreating moments she had played out with Gold, almost as if Jones had been there in the first place.

And he tried to romance her. She knew that he tried. After Millie's desertion of him, he thought he could get in the pants of another one of the women Gold loved. Almost like having them was some sort of competition.

Well, he wouldn't have her. Try though he might, even presenting her with a rather large ring one day. She knew he was still smarting from her laughing rejection. But it didn't stop him from doing his job, from flirting, from still attempting to win her over. It wouldn't work. But he didn't know that and in some ways it gave an extra edge to their filming.

They worked well together at least.

She hadn't heard from Gold since the moment she had walked out last July. She always thought he'd call or come after her or _something_. She had stormed out in anger, taken the first train west with Zoso and Jones, called her father to tell her she was getting her big break. She couldn't pretend she wasn't excited about that.

But there was a part of her that was dead inside, that hoped to see Gold again. She imagined him coming in at nearly every moment and her heart broke when she didn’t hear the thump of his cane, didn't hear the rich lilt of his voice. After a few months she realized he wasn't coming for her. He had well and truly let her go.

Without one word.

Without _anything_.

Their final day of filming was a cool and somewhat rainy day. She still wasn't used to the lack of snow in Hollywood, but she was thankful that at least Christmas Eve turned out to be a little dismal, a little rainy. It wasn't quite _White Christmas_ , but it was better than bright sun and heat.

After all the prep work that went into getting her ready for the filming, she felt more herself, less the lost little girl who missed the man she truly loved. Jones gave her a wink as he made his way to the dressing room. He'd appear in the final bit of the scene. A happy reunion. And that would be a wrap.

She didn't know if more would be coming, but the producers seemed quite pleased with what they had scene and Zoso had been singing their praises to every producer and director and screenwriter in Hollywood. If more didn't come, she would be surprised.

The opening of the scene was a quiet number, the same one that Gold had once sung to her, that first night together. She started on the far end of the room, the quiet strings beginning under her as she sang a serene, almost sad rendition of the song.

There were memories there. Memories that flooded her, memories she wanted to forget and yet she couldn't. When she walked to the piano, put her hand on the smooth black finish, she started, her voice breaking just slightly as she slid into the next note.

A teacup.

Her hand touched it briefly, turned it.

Not just any teacup.

A chipped one. The same one she had chipped a year ago when she first came to the inn. Was he here? He must be. Who else would know about the cup? No one was there that first night and Gold had cleaned up the mess himself.

She tried to glance around the room without being too obvious, without going off mark, without losing a beat. But she saw nothing. No one but the crew and a shadowy figure just outside of the marked area. Jones. It must be Jones.

But somehow she knew. The person was not built like Jones. Smaller and slighter.

And then his voice joined in. And there was no mistaking it.

Gold had come.

She didn't know how. Or why. But as he sang, he stepped out into the light. The director was frantically waving his arms and shouting, but it didn't stop them. The music continued, it swelled and finally Belle could take it no longer. As the director yelled cut she rushed across the room and flung herself into Gold's arms.

"You came for me," she whispered and allowed him to wrap her up in his arms.

"Some time ago," he whispered, the words going directly into her ear. "Someone told me that some people are just worth fighting for." He backed up a little bit, cupped her face. " _You_ are worth fighting for." There were tears at the corner of his eyes and she felt her own eyes dampen in response. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get my head out of my arse."

She let out a little watery laugh at that. "It _has_ been awhile."

He smiled then and brushed one of the tears threatening to fall with his thumb. "I love you Belle," he whispered and leaned down closer to her. His lips were just inches from hers but he stopped there, hesitated.

"Oh no you don't," Belle murmured, closing the distance between them and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. She was gratified when his arms came around her and he hauled her tight against him. This felt _right_. The first thing that felt right in as long as she could remember. "I love you too," she whispered against his lips as they kissed once more.

* * *

_New Years Eve…_

"Here we are again," Gold muttered. In the short time since his impromptu trip out to Hollywood, Belle had returned to Storybrooke with him, the inn had reopened, and he had proposed to her, though he hadn't managed to get down on one knee.

It had been magical, the misunderstandings and secrets now laid bare between them.

Killian Jones had returned with them. They had managed to wrap the movie, though Belle swore it would be her first _and_ last. She had enjoyed it, but her life was at the inn. Her life was with _Gold_ and she was happy with that. Besides, her fame from the movie was bound to bring even more people to the inn. They would have lazy days between the hustle and bustle of the holidays and the joy of the performances to keep them going. Even her father had come to accept it all.

Of course, the rather generous stipend she had sent to him from her movie proceeds had helped that along a bit.

Jones was slated to perform that night with them, a big gala presentation. A reintroduction of sorts. Millie had returned. The millionaire she had left him for turned out to _owe_ millions instead and so she had jumped ship and rushed back to Jones's arms. Gold didn't resent the pair at all. At one point he would have done anything to get Millie back. But her fly by night, wait for the next best thing to come along attitude was not what he needed in his life.

He had Belle.

And he had her forever.

"Yes, here we are," Belle answered. "And what a year it's been." She smiled at him, squeezed his hand.

"Are you ready to go out there and wow the crowd?" Gold asked, offering her a hand.

"Of course."

Together they made their way onto stage to the hoots and hollers of the large audience they had attracted that night. Gold knew things would never be perfect. Perfection didn't exist. But with the inn and with Miss Belle French, soon to be Mrs. Belle Gold, at his side, he would get as close as possible to it.

 


End file.
